


I didn't come here to hurt you (now I can't stop)

by SoapyPasta



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst and Tragedy, Arguing, But he doesn't mean to be, Emotional Hurt, Ghost!Shane, M/M, Past Shane Madej/Sara Rubin, Pining, Sad!Ryan, Shane Is Kind Of An Asshole, Spirit Box Sessions, Unrequited Love, Wakes & Funerals, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoapyPasta/pseuds/SoapyPasta
Summary: He doesn't realise he's supposed to be speaking until he's stood there, in front of the podium, hands shaking around a clutter of paper cards with handwriting he can't will himself to start reading.He should've made a PowerPoint slide. Shane would've laughed at that.He doesn't know what his goal is anymore, if it's not making Shane laugh.Or; After Shane dies in an accident, Ryan doesn't know how to cope and Shane's just trying to figure out the whole ghost thing.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara & Shane Madej, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 41
Kudos: 153





	I didn't come here to hurt you (now I can't stop)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think this needs any warnings.  
> Like...  
> Disclaimer, It's kinda sad?  
> I don't know.  
> Also, since there's mention Shane and Sara's relationship I feel like it's important to say I wrote this fic with no ill feeling toward her or their relationship. I think Sara is an amazing person and they are downright adorable together. 
> 
> Inspired by [This song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1FbZvDba6ew)

_Wrong_. That was a word. Not just any word, it was the word Ryan would use to describe this whole thing.

Shane may have enjoyed attention when it was warranted (when he was on camera, when there was some kind of script to play off, when he can make a show of it) but he wouldn't have wanted all this attention in death. He probably wouldn't have even wanted an open casket. Then again, he's not sure many people really like the idea of their dead body on display, it's just tradition.

Either way, he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted this, all his family and friends lined up in pews sobbing? It's all too much, too sad all at once. Though he guesses that's kind of the point, nobody shows up to a funeral expecting a party - _yes_ , okay there can be plenty of music and alcohol at wakes, but no one really expects to have a fun time, right? It's all about grieving, being close with family and friends, remembering not to take what you have for granted.

Shane would appreciate the sentiment then, he just wouldn't want all of, well, _this_. But he's not sure it matters. The whole point is that Shane isn't here to see it, therefore, why should it matter if it isn't to his exact tastes?

_Because Shane deserves the best, even in death, he deserves everything, just - not like this._

It's a shame really, in any other context Ryan would've appreciated the beauty of this place. His passion for film has given him a love of visuals, and this whole thing, if he's honest, is quite pleasing on the eye. Like the way the intricate stained glass above the doorway catches the morning sun just right, casting strings of webbed colour across the aisle leading up to the podium, from where behind the casket is sat. He'd have loved to catch that on camera, to show Shane it afterwards, because his appreciation for photography was one of the many things they shared. Who doesn't like pretty things?

All in all, though, Shane's love of sound overshadowed his appreciation for pretty scenery. He'd talk for hours about how saving snippets of sound was far better than photos. Ryan remembers one particular evening where LA was cursed with tropical storms, wind strong enough to uproot trees, rain dense enough to cause floods. Shane had recorded the sound of thunder, of rain, of the weather Ryan had only seen as an obstacle, a detriment to his lifestyle, and sent it to him.

He'd managed to find such beauty in something Ryan thought terrifying, monstrous in the moment. He'd managed to get Ryan to appreciate something he'd otherwise despise. He had a habit of that, turning negatives into positives, turning haunted houses and demons into jokes, mockeries of themselves for Ryan's entertainment, for his sanity. He'd turned the rain into music, thunder into poetry, If only he was here now to turn this funeral into a wedding. 

Shane would have loved the sounds the birds were making outside the chapel, a harmony of chirps and tweets that seem far too peaceful, that would be glorious if not torn apart by the ragged sound of Sherry Madej's distinct sobs.

He didn't think people's accents could come out so clearly in the way they cried, but there's something in the way she laments that sounds strikingly midwestern. Which is kind of an oxymoron, given the president that midwesterners are anything but outwardly emotional, though he's sure if he had a son he'd cry at his funeral regardless of social stereotypes too.

Shane would've had a morbid fascination with that. He really did manage to find charm in anything. It gave him a depth that the cameras rarely got to see, a depth that Ryan felt was sacred. (He also thinks humans have a tendency to destroy all things sacred, which lines up.)

There was a picture of him, In the only suit he owned, the same suit he'll be buried in, the same suit he's wearing as the service goes on. He'd hate that. He didn't really care about how he looked but Ryan knew he hated that suit, hated the way he looked in it. They'd brought it for a video, one that got scrapped in the makings, Ryan can't even remember the premise now, he doesn't suppose it matters. The picture is too big either way, stood in an ornate gold frame behind the podium. It seems like a special type of punishment lined up just for him, _here Ryan, stare at this unsettling picture of the man you love while you cry_. He thinks that's selfish because everyone else has to look too. He thinks he's allowed to be selfish because Shane is dead, and there's no Ryan Bergara without Shane Madej, not really. The ghoul boys, ride or die that's how it's supposed to be. 

All the pews were filled, lined up in rows, like a sad tin of sardines.

On second thought, all tins of sardines look kind of sad, don't they? The fish are dead long before they end up there, so the analogy is kind of appropriate. Shane hated tight spaces, a result of his height, if he was conscious he'd probably feel caught like a fish too in that casket. A net cast out to drag him in, to lead him to his demise. _It's a little late for that,_ and Ryan thinks he might be turning into a pessimist. Reading into everything negatively in the way he does sometimes when he hasn't had his morning coffee.

He remembers (barely) having his coffee Irish this particular morning, so he doesn't think that's the issue.

He knows what the issue is. It's simple really. It's all wrong. There are too many people, I mean, when was the last time Shane even acknowledged the existence of Matt, his third cousin, twice removed? And why on earth is a BuzzFeed Intern who quit a week in a few years back sat on the second row crying as if they had more than one conversation with the man?

Shane would've wanted something small, with character, with just the people who really cared. He wouldn't have wanted to be buried, a waste of money, he would've called it.

_'No dead guy needs a body'_ \- he'd said that, Ryan remembers the four-hour argument about necromancy they had because of it before he'd conceded (albeit sarcastically) - _'alright, sure Ryan, some dead guys may need their bodies, just in case some creepy witch decides to bring them back.'_ The mocking way he'd said _Witch_ wasn't lost on Ryan, he took it as a win anyway.

He misses their arguments, in fact, he's pretty sure that's what he misses most. The shit-eating grin he had on his face when he knew he'd wound Ryan up. The way he scoffed or rolled his eyes when Ryan suggested ghosts or aliens as an explanation for something historical or seemingly mundane. Ryan would do hours of research (usually into the early hours of the morning, which meant coffee quickly became his best friend, which could be the cause of his aforementioned pessimism problem, but whatever.) outside of the show just to have something to annoy Shane with when he was least expecting it. He thinks all the research Shane put into the hot daga was a punishment for that. The hot daga, _Jesus_ , that would've been better, if they just threw a projector up on the farthest wall and played the hot daga for twenty-four hours straight in his memory.

He probably would've liked that, yeah. Shane would've loved that. He's sadistic like that. In a quirky, irritating if not endearing way.

Maybe he'd have wanted something goofy and cliché, like everyone showing up in Hawaiian shirts. Something less traditional because I mean come on, _a chapel?_ The guy wasn't even religious.

Maybe everyone showing up in flannels, that would be very Shane - but maybe a little dark, if he really thinks about it. Shane might've been wearing his flannel that day (or at least one of the four he owns in the same colour) or maybe it was that sweater of his, the striped black and white one. He doesn't really remember much, no matter how hard he tries.

He remembers the call, or parts of it, from Sara - because she was still Shane's emergency contact, despite their mutual split more than two years prior, they were still close, they always were - he could barely make out a word she said.

She was crying, he knew that sound, he'd heard it a million times before. It had sounded different this time, or maybe he's just remembering it wrong, because the mind is an unreliable narrator.

But no, she sounded so shaken, he was sure of it, could sense something was seriously wrong in the way her voice cracked when she said, "Ryan, it-it's Shane." Maybe he just likes to think he did, to think he had some grasp on the situation. Just trying to give himself some control in retrospect, something to cling to. As if he knew, as if he should have known. As if there was any way of knowing. If he knew he could've stopped it. _if, if, if._

No. He didn't figure out what she meant straight away, or maybe he did, subconsciously, somewhere deep down, because he remembers crying as soon as he heard her voice. It was always a deep-seated fear of his, losing Shane. Not getting the chance to tell him. 

_He never knew._

"An accident," She'd said, "it wasn't- why him Ryan? Anyone- anyone but him." And he still wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but he agreed wholeheartedly then, _anyone but him._

_Why him, God? Anyone? Why him?_

"What happened? Is he okay? Where are you?" He had jumped up from his desk - he'd stayed behind to work on a new script, had told Shane to go on home, not to worry about him, that he wasn't too tired, that he really needed to work, that they'd have to take a raincheck on movie night.

He should have begged him to stay, to help, the way he wanted to. He should've told him that the script didn't matter, that watching the third instalment of the Insidious franchise was far more important. Shane should've gone back to Ryan's, in the passenger seat, not back to his own apartment - that's empty now, apart from a stray couch and a dusty old table - in front of the wheel in his own damn car. He should've gotten an Uber. He should've delayed himself five minutes by losing his car keys the way he had the day before.

There was nothing the doctors could do. He wasn't okay. He was already in the morgue. Or his body was. His soul, his consciousness had to be somewhere better. It had to be, because Shane deserved somewhere better. He did. For all his taunting, mocking, through all his disbelief of the afterlife, he deserved something more. He deserved the best. What had he done to deserve anything less?

He doesn't realise he's supposed to be speaking until he's stood there, in front of the podium, hands shaking around a clutter of paper cards with handwriting he can't will himself to start reading.

He should've made a PowerPoint slide. Shane would've laughed at that.

He doesn't know what his goal is anymore, if it's not making Shane laugh.

He'd give up anything to hear that laugh again. Even if it killed him. He'd die for Shane Madej, no, he'd die twice. Or a million times over. Whichever sounds the most dramatic. He'll pick that one.

Everyone is sat there, waiting. Sara is there, pushing up her glasses to wipe the tears out of her eyes. Scott is there, Ryan thinks he's spoken already, he's only been vaguely aware of his surroundings. A lot of Shane's family has turned up, one side of the room for them and one side for friends and colleagues.

He can't will himself to speak, to tell them all the things he loves about Shane. Loved. All the things he never had the guts to tell him. If he couldn't say it then, how could he now? To everyone's ears but Shane's?

If he could speak, he'd tell them how much he loved Shane's stupid clear frame glasses, and how obnoxious he looked pushing them up his nose in between takes. That he loved the way he walked the line of quirky history teacher and hipster every day with the way he dressed, and how he pulled off every single outfit without even caring.

He'd tell them how much he adored when Shane would grow his hair out, the way it would spew about in every other direction whenever he made a vague attempt at styling it.

He'd tell them how jealous he was of all of them. How jealous he is of Sara because she got to kiss the end of his nose and ruffle his hair, she got to hold him, to touch him in bed without declaring it to be an accident or pretending to be asleep. Without the mumble of _'no homo'_ seconds afterwards. 

How jealous he is of his mother because she got to see him grow up, see him as a quirky little kid, she has all these memories of him, all these years with him that Ryan never got. 

Because they got to tell him they loved him. And he'll never get the chance. 

He probably never would've told him, but he would now. If he could just- but no.

Oh, what he'd give to see that goofy bastard again. With his millions of pairs of chinos and his despicable determination to destroy all of Ryan's beliefs in the most adorable way. The way he'd get bored of arguing when they were sat together watching a movie and his arguments would just turn to repeat everything Ryan says in a parody of his voice. Everything Ryan _said_.

He can't hear Ryan anymore, he can't listen, so why does it matter? Why does he need to tell them? They aren't Shane, they don't matter. Fuck them, because every second Shane spent listening to them, talking to them, he wasn't listening to Ryan.

\---------------------------------------

He's not sure where he is at first when he wakes up, then he realises - he's in a casket, because where else would he be? He thinks it should worry him that he almost deems this normal, sleeping in a casket on location, because that's just a thing he does now apparently, but he doesn't remember being on location, doesn't remember going to sleep in a wooden box.

He groans, wincing at how much like a zombie he sounds, from one of those movies that always ends the same way, with the same regurgitated plot, while sitting up and grabbing his head.

It hurts, everything hurts and there's this buzzing sensation under his skin, throbbing through his bones. It's like his entire body is awake with this crackling energy and- _is that his mom's voice?_

His eyebrows furrow as he squints, trying to make out words, but it's all indistinct mumbling and it takes him this long to realise he can't see three feet in front of him, everything around the casket is bathed in white, the absence of colour - _or was it all colour at once?_ Blended into one vibrant probing white. He tries to remember where he is, how he got here, what he's doing in a fucking coffin. 

He thinks it should be more surprising, but the idea of waking up after a night of drinking in a coffin doesn't seem all that implausible- wait no, wasn't he on location with Ryan for unsolved? Isn't that what he'd said? So this can't be a hangover, he can't have been drunk.

_Someone drugged me._ Is his first thought, because this headache can't just be a hangover. Followed by, _I'm dead._ But then he shakes that thought away because no way, _no_ _fucking_ _way_.

There's a mockery of his own voice in his head, as though reflected from another time, _Occam's razor my friend,_ he was debunking one of Ryan's many pieces of evidence, he thinks, that's where he recognises that phrase in his own voice, despite how foreign it sounds. _The simplest answer, the most obvious, the casket, the white light. You're dead Shane Madej, suck it up!_

Then he groans again, cursing the Shane in his head because in what world is _"guess I'm a guh-guh-guh-ghost!"_ the logical conclusion? In-his-head-Shane has been hanging out with Ryan too much, he supposes a little snidely, vaguely aware that the voice in the distance he'd identified as his mother's is now Scott's.

Trying to pull himself up he finds that all his limbs feel weak, wrong somehow, as though they aren't his own, as though they weren't supposed to be moving. He calls out _Scott!_ , or he tries, his voice falling silent on his own ears.

_Ah. Fuck._

_Finn!_ He tries again, but he can't hear it. It's not there. His mouth is opening, he's thinking the words loud enough that he should be screaming them, so why isn't he?

_Mom? Dad?_

He's sitting up fully now, he managed that much before the static in his head increased to an intolerable volume. He thinks maybe he can imagine it's the sound of a heart rate monitor, or other idle hospital machinery. He thinks maybe it's been distorted by some sort of concussion, he was in an accident then. He doesn't remember how, or why or even whether it was really an accident.

Still, none of that explains the casket.

_Anyone!?_

He can't feel anything. How had it taken him this long to realise, other than the pain racking through his own body, he can't feel anything? Physically. There's no breeze or sweat on his skin. He's not hot, or cold. He knows he's sat in the casket, but he can't feel it, no fabric interior, his hands don't feel anything when they touch the smooth wooden lip. They don't slip on the fresh coat of varnish, he doesn't feel a sharp tug as his skin snags on a stray splinter.

There's nothing. Maybe he's nothing.

_Ryan?_

He'd have some grand explanation for this - though it probably starts with _'g'_ and ends with _'host'._ He'd have some ridiculous theory to explain this all away and Shane would _believe him._ He really fucking would, because he needs it, he _needs_ aliens and ghosts and demons, he needs secret conspiracies and lizard people. He needs Ryan to tell him he's turned into the fucking Mothman and he's gained some sort of fucking moth senses he just hasn't fully got a grasp on yet. He needs Ryan to tell him he's finally become part bigfoot and _God Shane, relax, didn't you know cryptids are short-sighted? Everyone knows that. That's bigfoot 101- and- and you call yourself a foot? Jesus._

_Ryan. Please_.

And he finds it in him, he doesn't know, but he gathers the energy to stand, to tug himself out of the casket and out into the great white expanse around him.

He turns around, so he's stood at the foot of the coffin.

And then he sees.

He didn't get out of the casket. He's not in the hospital with some damn concussion. He's not some cryptid. He hasn't woken up in the matrix. He's lying there. He's _dead_.

It's like breaching water. Everything is muffled under the surface then something pops, something clicks and you can see again. You can hear again.

They are all there, Sara, Keith, Steven, everyone else he's ever worked with, everyone he's ever considered a friend.

They are all there, his mom, his dad, Scott, that one aunty who knitted him those ugly scarves every year for Christmas. He always gave those scarves to Obi, he loved pulling them apart. Waste not, want not and all that.

_Holy shit._

There's Ryan, he's stood at the front, just off to the side of the casket, his back to Shane.

Shane thinks he's supposed to be speaking, but he isn't, he's shaking. Then he's not there anymore, and the door at the end of the chapel is swinging shut.

He curses, remembering all the times he'd promised Ryan to _"haunt the fuck out of him"_ if he ever became a ghost. He wants to stay, to share childhood memories with his brother, to tell Sara he's fucking sorry it ended the way it did, to tell his mom that he spent every day in LA craving her homemade pie, because California just doesn't make it the same. But Ryan needs him, because _he needs Ryan._

Walking is hard, really damn hard. Who thought walking would be what ghosts struggle with the most? But it fucking sucks, because he can't feel the ground beneath his feet, but it's there, stopping him from sinking into the earth. It has to be, because he's certainly not going down.

He makes it outside onto the steps of the chapel before he pauses, he expects some sort of breeze, he expects the smell of grass or diesel or a random roadside hotdog cart. He smells nothing. Feels nothing and he gets caught up in it. Will that ever come back? His hearing did. He can hear birds chirping and it's kind of fucking gorgeous in its own right, the symphony of noise provided by nature, or it would be, it wasn't smouldered out by the rush of all the cars buzzing past. He's starting to wish he paid more attention when Ryan started rambling about ghosts.

Once he gets a hold of himself he spots Ryan crumpled up against a tree across the street. He steps down onto the curb of the sidewalk but he stops, can't bring himself to cross because there are so many fucking cars, and he can't feel anything, so it really wouldn't matter if he got hit but he still can't make himself take the step.

What if Ryan can see him, hear him? It'll be like torture, he'll never give up. He'll never move on. He can't hold Ryan back like that. It's so fucking selfish.

He should let Ryan deal with his grief, let him move on, not leave him getting caught up in evidence and late-night talks with a fucking ghost. That'd probably get him sectioned. Then he realises Sara had come out after him, she must of, because she's already across the road, hand on Ryan's shoulder.

Yeah, he'll be fine, Shane will just watch the rest of the service, spend what time he can with his family. He can't be selfish with Ryan. Not now.

\---------------------------------------

He knows it's wrong, he knows the place isn't even Shane's anymore, none of Shane's belongings are here, aside from one, he brought it with him. Items help create contact with the physical realm. It doesn't matter if he's wearing it, or that he's barely taken it off since a week ago at the service. What matters is that it's Shane's and items really do help with connections like this, he spoke to a medium about it.

And _okay_ , maybe he went a little overboard, maybe the alarmed motion sensors at the bedroom and front door are a little overkill, and maybe he didn't need to set up both the static and the thermal cameras but he still doesn't really know which works best.

He's pretty sure the fresh bowl of popcorn as an offering was a genius idea though. He's real proud of that one.

And he's not sure he'll even use the ouija board but he'd brought it anyway, along with the spirit box. Devon had politely told him be should have some time off when she'd walked onto the unsolved set only to see him sat at his desk- their desk, planchette in hand and now he's entirely willing to spend the week he has off hunkered down in this apartment. That's perfectly fine with him. 

He sets about lighting candles and laying them out delicately on the coffee table - it's one of the only pieces of furniture still here, aside from a stray couch, both of which existed here far before Shane moved in - when he first hears it. He thinks it's his imagination at first because it wouldn't be the first time he's heard things since Shane has been gone, but no, it's clear as day.

\---------------------------------------

The last thing he expects when stepping through the threshold of his apartment is a sharp ringing sound in his ears which, in retrospect, yeah no he really should have expected that. In the same way, he should have expected to see Ryan bounding out of what used to be his living room, lit match still burning in his hand. Ryan in his flannel, that looks crumpled and stained like Ryan's probably worn it for days straight and- judging by the state of his hair- he probably hasn't taken it off to shower recently.

Because of course, Ryan booby-trapped his front door - well, the abandoned apartment's front door - because why wouldn't he?

_Stupid Shane, you should've known better. Why didn't you know better? (Maybe, just maybe you did know better, maybe you came anyway.)_

_Fuck_. He curses to himself and almost convinces himself to turn around, to just leave but then Ryan says his name so soft, so uncertain, so sad and he doesn't have it in him.

He can tell by the way Ryan's eyes are darting around he still can't see him, so he really should leave. He promised himself as much, no holding him back. But _he's_ being held back and he's longing, he's fucking pining because he's been wandering around LA all week just wanting to be held in Ryan's arms. To have some kind of proof that he really is still here on earth, that he can make contact, that this isn't some kind of eternal damnation. A sick joke played by the devil himself for being such an ass to his well-known partner in crime, the goatman.

So, instead, he steps forward, takes a risk, leans down to blow out the match before it burns the tips of Ryan's fingers and _it fucking works_. He hadn't expected it to, part of him hoped it wouldn't because he knows that's more than enough evidence for Ryan. If only he was still alive and standing beside him to calm him down, if only he could rationalise it with a short, _"well it is a little drafty in here, don't you think?"_

Another thing he should've expected but was entirely unprepared for was the subsequent, "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," that floods his ears. It's weirdly calming, hearing Ryan panic like that, in a familiar, fond kind of way. He missed it. He missed Ryan. And God, he knows he can't leave now.

He's fucked.

"Shane!- Shane? Oh my God! Is that you? I knew it! I knew it goddamn it! I told you ghosts were real and you never believed me and now look! The match went out Shane, that was you! It had to be you, oh my God-" Ryan rambles, wide-eyed and trembling, his breath coming up short as he continues to spin around frantically like he might catch a glimpse of something if he just looks hard enough. Hell, maybe he will, it's not like Shane knows. He's not quite figured this whole ghost thing out yet.

That's not his biggest concern right now though because he's presently scared Ryan will start hyperventilating and he's all the more aware this was an awful idea, he should've left, he should have stayed well enough away.

But then Ryan seems to get it together, Shane sees through it regardless but he also figures its probably more for himself than Shane so he won't judge.

He clears his throat, straightens up and glares toward the door and his gaze is eerily close to meeting Shane's eyes. It shouldn't feel so good to be looked at, especially considering he's not even really looking at him, and more glaring in his general direction but it lights a fire in him he didn't think was capable of burning anymore. Mainly because he doesn't really think there is an inside in terms of his anatomy anymore, but again, what does he know? Other than that Ryan's gaze feels like coming inside from a hike to shuck off his coat and cosy down beside the quaint little fire inside his grandparent's tiny cabin in the winter. Ryan feels like sanctuary. He looks like he's fit in well at a woodsy little cabin too, what with the flannel and the stubble that's quickly turning into a scruffy, unkempt little beard.

"If you're there, if that really is you I want you to follow," he sounds determined, though his voice wavers about halfway through the sentence. Then, almost as an afterthought, "please."

Shane nods, and he knows that Ryan doesn't see it but the fact that he seems to nod back then turns to walk back through the apartment makes him shudder. Nevertheless, he follows and thinks that it means a little less each time he tells himself to turn around and walk away. Though when Ryan walks into the living room he finds himself unable the follow anymore, stuck in the doorway and now the _holy shit holy shit holy shit_ is in his head and not his ears and _oh God, Ryan_.

It was never supposed to be like this, this wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to move on. Shane can feel his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach, which are both organs he didn't think he still had, so maybe he just remembers what his bodies reaction to something like this would be.

It's awful, there are candles and a spirit board and that godforsaken radio and a bowl of fucking popcorn and this shouldn't be happening, he shouldn't be here. Ryan was supposed to be happy, sure he's allowed to grieve, allowed to be upset for a natural fraction of time but not like _this_. He'd seen the flannel, the greasy hair and the scruffy beard. He'd seen the sunken bags under Ryan's eyes and sure, it rang alarm bells but this- _this is too much._

This isn't healthy, this isn't what moving on looks like.

"So- erm, if you're here I guess you already know what this thing is," he picks up the spirit box from the table, staring down at it as he passes it between his trembling hands. "I know you hate it, but when I turn it on, please, try say something."

Shane doesn't realise he's crying until he tastes the tears on his lips. He didn't know ghosts could cry, he thinks he's had plenty tear-worthy moments in the passing weeks and he doesn't know why it's only now his body (or spirit) seems to want to function like he's living, he doesn't know if he likes it. It's almost overwhelming, the feeling of tears on his face, the waves of sadness he's experiencing are almost oppressive.

The box flicks on, filling the room with an intolerable buzz so loud he almost misses the sound of Ryan sniffling as he stutters out, "will you- can you try say your-" he looks out, taking a shuddering breath, "-your name for me?" He seems to hold the box out, like he's offering it up, like that's an offer he wants to take and suddenly the overpowering urge to communicate with the man he loves battles with the part of his brain telling him to stay silent, because he doesn't really want a response.

He just needs an excuse to move on, silence gives him an excuse.

**_"Bzz- shKk- rrZhH- ffZk-"_ **

"You know, every morning I wake up to an empty bed and I burst out crying, which doesn't even make sense, because you've never slept in my bed before. But I've always wanted you to, and I've always been able to tell myself, _maybe someday,_ and now I- there is no someday. So now I wake up every morning to a reminder that I never- that I'll never- that I lost you before I ever even had you," he sniffles, tears streaming down his face, "and I know we- that we would never be more than best friends anyway but there was always that possibility, I could always _hope_ and now I've got nothing to hope for."

**_"Zhk- RrK- BsZsh- -shhK Rhh-"_ **

Shane shakes his head, his entire face scrunching up as he cries, he has to turn away he rubs sporadically at his face. He can't take this, this isn't fair. How is he supposed to move on now? What is he supposed to do with this information other than sob like a fucking toddler who thinks they've lost their mom in Target or Walmart, or Walgreens or wherever the hell mothers take their children shopping? As if it fucking matters. As if any of it matters.

**_"Bzz- Hsskk- RshhZ- BzHk-"_ **

"All I wanted was- I just needed a chance to tell you that I-"

The spirt box falls silent.

**_"Don't."_ **

He stops dead, "w-what? Shane?" His eyes widen and Shane can practically feel the panic rising up in him, followed by a sharp spike of bitter hope and he looks down at the radio in his hands.

**_"Don't you fucking dare Ryan- you can't- you can't tell me that now- how can you- it's not fair I can't- FUCK!"_** Shane snaps and the box shuffles back to random white noise. He curses more at himself than Ryan because he's crossing every line he wrote out for himself and he's being a damn asshole. Ryan was trying to tell him he loved him and he basically told him to shut up- worse, he's making him feel guilty for it and what kind of grade-A jerk does that?

**_"Bzz- shKk- rrZhH- ffZk-"_ **

"I- I'm sorry it's just- I spent the last two years holding it in and now I can't even say it when you're dead?"

**_"Rhzz- kss- rrHh- Zk- bzzSHk-"_ **

_Two years, he's loved me for two years. All this time we could've been-_

_**"Bzzhk- rHkSh- ffZskKk-"** _

"Who else am I supposed to tell Shane- what else am I supposed to do? And don't you dare say move on because that isn't fair either. I loved you- I still fucking love you and I can't just let that go."

**_"I'm dead Ryan, you have to try, this isn't healthy, you can't keep doing this. What's next, bringing a medium to my grave?"_ **

"Yes! If it means you'll talk to me, yes!" Ryan squeaks indignantly, eyes going beadier, voice raising a few octaves. 

**_"Do you hear how insane that sounds?"_ **

"I know! You think I don't know? Everyone thinks I'm going crazy! Devon suggested I see a psychiatrist the other day- I know how this looks but I- Shane I don't care because you're here- you're here and that's all I need!"

**_"Zhk- RrK- BsZsh- -hhK- Rhh-"_ **

Shane bites down on his knuckles as he squeezes his eyes shut, squeezing his nails into his palm and mentally pleading to whatever God is making him go through this to just make it stop. _Oh God please, I don't want to cry anymore._

**_"Bzz- Hsskk- RshhZ- BzHk-"_ **

Ryan sighs, shaking his head as he tries fruitlessly to wipe away his tears, "how am I supposed to go on without you Shane? When you're all I've cared about for so many years? How can I move on when I've never felt love close to what I feel when I'm with you before?"

**_"Maybe therapy isn't such a bad idea Ry."_ **

"Fuck you," Ryan laughs sourly, "fuck you, Shane, don't you make me feel like I'm crazy too, not now."

**_"I don't think you're crazy -Bsshk- but you have a life, Zkk-job- shhZk- so much you care about outside of just me, of whatever this is."_ **Shane's head hurts from the arguing and he thinks it's a little cruel that even in death your soul, or whatever he is now, can still experience such raw physical and emotional pain.

Ryan frowns, looking down at the box before up and around at the room, trying to locate where Shane might be stood, "bullshit, you are my career, and the only person I enjoy spending time with outside of it, you're the only thing I care about." Shane winces as though he can physically feel the spark of anger burning up in Ryan, his head pounding as Ryan's voice pitches up a few more octaves in irritation.

**_"That's n-zzHk- not- ShhK- you're putting me in an impossible position Ryan- RhKZz- I can't be there- I can't- ShKz- I'm not- I'm fucking dead I- RrKz-"_ **

"But you can talk to me, like this! And we, there's got to be easier ways, better ways- and maybe I could- if you try harder- maybe you could show yourself to me and if I could see you, then maybe someday I could touch you, Shane- we could-" He flails his arms to emphasise his point, sighing in exasperation as he struggles to find the words.

**_"Jesus Ryan, stop we can't- BzZzk- that's not how this wo- HkkZ-"_ **

"As far as I remember, I'm the ghost expert out of the two of us-"

**_"I AM a ghost-"_ **

"Exactly! Which means I've been right so far!" His voice comes out sharp, snappy and harsh yet increasingly desperate and Shane thinks he needs to find a way to convey how much it makes him feel like he's burning alive from the inside out.

**_"Ryan- SHHzK- come on this is-"_ **

"Why can't you just agree with me for once Shane! Are you that damn stubborn that you can't accept when you're wrong even now?"

He feels a wave of anger building up beside the pain under his skin - or, he doesn't really know, because again, _organs, ghosts don't need 'em_ \- and he's pretty sure it's not his own. He never gets angry with Ryan, frustrated maybe but not genuinely angry. Not like this. This hurts. Maybe this is what happens, ghosts just get increasingly angry, maybe this is how poltergeists are made. He doesn't share this new theory with Ryan.

" ** _BzzShK- KkRz- ShshhKz-"_**

"What? Nothing to say to that!?" Ryan yells, the tears streaming down his face now soaking into the collar of his- Shane's shirt, his face turning red out of exasperation.

**_"Ry-KzsZr-an- ShkkR-"_ **

"Just say something! Do something! Argue! Fucking talk to me Shane I swear to-" his cut off by a yelp, his own yelp, because the spirit box goes flying out of his hand, slamming into the wall with enough force to crack it in two, "what the fuck!?" He snaps, but it's more out of fear than anger now, "what the fuck? Shane!?"

_Ryan, I didn't- I didn't mean to-_ Shane jerks backwards from where he's stood in front of Ryan, arm still half suspended in the air from where he'd knocked the spirit box out of the other's hands. _I didn't-_ the anger inside him boils down instantly into nothing, quenched by guilt and that pain that never quite left.

Except he thinks he knows what the pain is now, prominent on the rightmost side of his body, because he _remembers_. He's not quite sure when the memory came back to him, it must've been slowly, so slowly he didn't even notice because it's not like some sudden flash, some abrupt realisation. It's just there now, the cloudy sky, the empty road, the immediate light, the searing pain, the ringing in his ears. The car that turned around a corner too harsh, too fast. The sudden, jerking pressure across the right side of his body and the cool damp pavement beneath him. He thinks the pain has been with him since he woke up in that casket, and that he'd just managed to block it out until now.

He can't block it out anymore, he doesn't have the strength.

"Shane?"

He looks over to where Ryan is frantically fiddling with broken pieces of black plastic on the floor, "why would you- no Shane I- please-" he sniffles but Shane can't see if he's crying, because it's blurring out of focus.

He thinks it's because he's crying himself at first, but when he reaches up to wipe his eyes his face is dry. The lack of dampness startles him so much he pulls his hand back to inspect it but then he feels that sinking feeling from earlier all over again because the tips of his fingers are steadily fading from translucent to nothingness.

He sniffles, and he still thinks he's crying, he must be as he looks back up at Ryan's blurry figure, the figure that's looking around the room hopelessly like he knows, like he knows he'll never find anything.

_Ryan._ But it doesn't come out. He can't even hear it himself.

_Ryan- no- no I don't-_

He looks desperately around the room before his eyes land on the ouija board between tears, or whatever it is spotting his vision. Then it occurs to him, _he never said it back._

He chokes on what he thinks is a sob as he scrambles to kneel over by the table, because he at least needs to- he has to let him know, he can't-

_I don't want to go Ry- not now I take it all back- I'm not ready to- Ryan, fuck please I'm sorry_.

He places his clear fingers on the planchette, trying to focus all his energy on getting it to move but he pushes and pushes and no matter what it doesn't move.

It's spreading up to his forearms now, the nothingness, the absence of himself as he falls back on his knees.

He can hear Ryan sobbing, muttering "fuck you, Shane, why would you- please I need you, don't go, don't leave-" and he thinks he must tune it out after that because everything goes painfully silent. True silence, no white noise, no sniffling or breathing, nothing.

He makes an effort to pull himself to his feet, to try and stand so he can reach out, as though it would do anything to help.

_Ryan, I love you, I love you so much, I've loved you since the first time you got my coffee order right without asking me first. I've loved you since the first bowl of popcorn we shared._

The blurring in his vision turns to white spots, speckling in and out of his field of vision, and he tries desperately to make Ryan out between the emptiness but no matter how frantically he spins he can't.

_I've loved you since the first test friends video we did together, since the first time we went out to drink with work friends and the night ended with just me and you. I thought if I- I thought when I was with Sara I could get over you but I couldn't I- we broke up because it was still you, she could see it was always fucking you and I hated you for it-_

He can't see anymore, it's all white, a bright, burning white.

_Ryan, I'm not ready to leave you, please I don't want to go Ry- find a way, find a way to speak to me again? I know what I said but I- I love you so much it hurts-_

But it doesn't hurt, because he can't feel a thing and he thinks he'd take the pain over this any day.

_I'm scared, Ryan._

> _And I want you to know, you couldn't have loved me better,_
> 
> _But I want you to move on,_
> 
> _So I'm already gone._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I-


End file.
